


Pants at Yoga

by aban_asaara



Series: Amabel Hawke [14]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yoga, Crush at First Sight, F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: Hawke is pants at yoga, and Fenris’s yoga pants aren’t helping.





	Pants at Yoga

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you’re thinking about your OTP all the damn time, including in your yoga class.

Hawke is sticking out like a sore thumb.

A very, _very_ sore thumb, she thinks, wincing, propped up on one arm and her forehead while her foot zigzags in the air like a nug on a sugar high.

Not that she usually _minds_ standing out—especially not when it gets her the attention of a handsome elven man with legs for days and the most spectacular jawline in Thedas—but she’d _much_ rather it wasn’t because he spotted her holding the wrong leg up for the fifth time in a row.

“Careful,” Fenris says, blocking her foot with his arm when it zips by his face. Hawke considers crawling under her mat to die, but he nudges her foot into place and corrects her position, all gentle fingers and sandpaper-rough voice, and it just might be worth living for.

None of the dozen other people in the studio have any issue whatsoever mirroring the smooth, graceful lines of his body as he takes up pose after pose, a faintly bored look on his handsome face. As if on cue, everyone else stretches and folds themselves into the Half-Bow, the Reclining Pigeon or the Tap-Dancing Bronto, while Hawke trips on her own limbs and wobbles on her legs like this was the Hanged Man at closing time and not some Maker-forsaken yoga studio in Hightown. Even Isabela manages, _somehow_. Anyone who subsists on Antivan brandy and spicy wyvern wings has no business being this supple, but Isabela arcs her back and reaches behind herself for her ankle, curving herself into a perfect arabesque, while Hawke needs Fenris to hand her her own foot before face-planting into the mat with all the grace of a drunk druffalo.

Isabela doesn’t even bother stifling her laughter. “Nice Reclining Hawke,” she says, out loud. Even _Fenris_ fails to disguise his laugh as a cough, and Hawke could make Isabela eat her own yoga mat right there and then.

Then it’s time for the Tree pose—or the Sapling in a Storm, in Hawke’s case: she shakes on one leg, struggling to keep her balance long enough to lift her other foot off the mat and press the sole against her inner thigh.

Her reflection turns the colour of Llomerryn red sauce when Fenris’s face appears above her shoulder in the mirror. “Try resting your foot against your calf instead,” he suggests in his gravelly voice, turning her bones to water. After one or two false starts, he amends, “Or against your ankle, perhaps. Keep your toes on the floor if you need.”

“Oh,” she says, very eloquently.

Some tree she makes. More like a puddle.

Well. At least holding the pose _is_ easier now, with her tiptoes propping up her leg. Now she even gets to gaze at Fenris’s reflection in the mirror instead of whipping around on one feet like a crazed weathervane. He raises his joined hands to the ceiling effortlessly, his entire body stretching along the length in one taut line. He’s all in lean, wiry strength, swirls of white-ink tattoos emphasising the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. In the mirror, his eyes are green and intense, and staring at their reflection, Hawke is so far away from her inner core as to be somewhere in Satina’s orbit, all sorts of inappropriate thoughts running into her head—“thank the Maker for yoga pants” chief among them when the hem of his tank top rucks up his backside.

Fenris stretches one leg to the side and extends his arms, muscles rippling under his smooth, brown skin, and she wonders how his shoulder blades would feel under her hands as she clung to him. In her daydream, at least, he has the reach to make up for her lack of flexibility: she imagines their limbs twisted together in interlocking shapes, her body arced under his in the Bridge pose, or maybe the Cobra, Fenris pulling her to himself while he pounds her into the mat with raw abandon, his strong chest rumbling against her back as he moans her name into her ear—

His eyes meet hers in the mirror, pulling her out of her fantasy. He lifts an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth in a smirk that turns her belly to jelly, and she realises, with the exact sort of dawning horror that _doesn’t_ belong in a yoga class, that she’s the only one still stretched out in the bloody Tree Pose while everyone else is back down on their mats, slanted bodies propped up on one arm.

“Hanged Man later?” Isabela asks on their way out of the gym, a playful glint to her dark eyes.

“Urgh, if only I didn’t _work_ there tonight,” Hawke replies, careful not to make eye contact with Fenris as she rushes to the locker room. “I could use a drink or twelve.”

Isabela laughs over the clang of locker doors, fiddling with her combination lock. “You’ve got the Downward Bitch in Heat pose down, at least. I could see you thirsting for some Mating Mabaris action in there.”

“It’s not _funny_ ,” Hawke whines, stuffing her gym clothes into her bag.

“Kitten, I don’t think you can accurately judge just _how_ funny it was.” Isabela squeezes herself into her (very short) shorts, then twines her hands together and bats her lashes. “‘Ooh, instructor, can we practice the Burrowing Deepstalker pose together?’” she teases, voice pitched high.

“The Burrowing— _ew_ ,” Hawke exclaims, throwing her rolled-up t-shirt at Isabela. “Bela, you just ruined _penises_.”

Isabela bursts out laughing, catching the bundled fabric in mid-air and flinging it back at her. “Oh, I doubt it. A man with _such_ mastery of his own body—it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

With a groan, Hawke throws her t-shirt on—her well-worn, too-large ZITHER! Exalted Tour t-shirt with the cracked screen print—over her leggings, then steps into her flats. “Let’s just get out of here before I die of mortification,” she says, tugging her ponytail loose and combing her fingers through her hair.

“You’d be long dead if that were a thing, sweetness,” Isabela retorts, slinging her gym bag over her shoulder as they head out.

The light outside is dazzling, the afternoon sun drenching the streets and sidewalks; a warm breeze blows from the Waking Sea, seagulls loosing shrill cries and wheeling before the sun. Hawke has to squint as she walks down the street, bumping into passersby despite her best efforts (she’s never gotten the hang of navigating crowds after growing up in the wide, green expanse of the Fereldan countryside), rummaging through her bag for her sunglasses—

“ _Flames_.” She stops dead in her tracks, then stammers an apology when a pair of Qunari have to swivel on their feet to avoid colliding into her. Isabela turns, casting a confused look her way from above her shoulder. “I forgot my bottle inside,” Hawke sighs.

“Uh-huh. You ‘forgot’ your bottle,” Isabela repeats, punctuating the words with air quotes. “Bet it needs to be filled up, too.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Hawke says, but she can’t _quite_ suppress a smile, even as she rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue. “See you around, then?”

“Sure. Now go make me proud; run back in there and have the hot yoga instructor help you find your inner center,” she says with a wink, mouth curved into a devilish grin. Hawke rolls her eyes again, heading back towards the yoga center, while behind her Isabela continues with, “Embrace your peace? Open your third eye? Align your chakras?”

The door swings shut behind Hawke, cutting off the sounds of Hightown’s busy streets and Isabela’s laughter. The last thing she wants is to bump into Fenris again after making a fool of herself, but with the exception of a couple of stragglers lagging behind in the locker room, most people have already left. The disinterested receptionist motions her towards the studio, and Hawke casts furtive glances around her as she makes her way there, ready to snatch the truant bottle and make a run for it—

She stops in the doorway, forgetting how to breathe.

Fenris is still there.

His shirt is not.

The sight nails her into place. He’s training alone in the studio now, both hands wound tight around a staff. The sunlight splashing through the ceiling-high windows turns his silver hair almost blinding and gilds the dark olive of his skin. His tattoos highlight his movements as they fold and unfold together with his limbs, white flashes trailing the smooth lines of his arms and his chest. He moves across the room like running water, stretching then drawing back, slow then lightning quick; he strikes an imaginary foe before him, then twirls the staff high overhead to hit another one that would have snuck in the blind spot on his left. A thrust aimed behind him, then a high, effortless jump that takes him nearly halfway across the room, his staff whooshing through the air in a wide arc.

There’s something almost intimate in the way he moves, an unwavering focus chiseled on his features, as though nothing exists outside the perfect dance of his mind and body. Her bottle can wait until next week, Hawke decides. She’s trespassing, hovering on the border of a world that has no place for her, so she slinks away, holding her breath.

Something yanks her hard; she stumbles, ramming the open door against the wall. Hawke winces and curses under her breath, and turns to find the strap of her gym bag caught on the doorknob.

The hairs raise on her arms when Fenris’s gaze meets hers from across the room.

He regains his footing as quickly as he loses it. “Can I help you?” he asks, not even out of breath.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—I just—I didn’t see anything,” she stammers, praying for the polished, shiny floorboards to open up under her feet. Fenris dabs the sweat dewing his forehead with a towel, an amused glint lighting up his green eyes. Then he pulls his tank top over his head, much to her dismay, but at least she can scrape together a shred of coherence. “I, uh. I think I forgot my water bottle here.”

“Ah. Yes.” He takes the sports bottle in question from where it had been forgotten by the wall, innocuous, and crosses the room in three strides to hand it to her. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Her fingers brush his when she wraps her hand around the neck of the bottle. So warm does she feel all of a sudden that she’s relieved steam isn’t rising from where her skin touches the still-cold stainless steel.

“A pleasure,” he replies, sweeping his hair off his brow with one hand, then glances at her t-shirt and smirks. “ZITHER!, eh?”

Hawke blushes all the way to the roots of her hair. “I love him,” she laughs, embarrassed, “ _un_ ironically. I can’t help it.”

He gives a shrug. “No shame in that. _The Virtuoso_ is a great album. Though his antics do his music a disservice.”

“He’s Orlesian,” Hawke replies, grinning. “The antics are half the fun, as far as I’m concerned.”

The deep rumble of his laughter makes her weak at the knees. “You may have a point there.”

She smiles back at him, her heart beating so fast her blood is making bubbles. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is,” she says when she’s been staring up at him for a second too long. “See you next week?”

His gaze darts to one sunlit corner of the studio at that. “I was only substituting for the regular instructor this week, since he— _allegedly_ —missed his flight back from Antiva.”

“Oh, okay. Of course.” Hawke keeps her smile in place, even as her heart drops to her ballet flats. Silly, she knows, but in the span of a few words she felt the same budding excitement, the same promise of _more_ she did as a girl, spotting the first bright-green shoots peeking through the dark, moist earth of her mother’s vegetable patch. Too little to make anything out of, but too much to turn away from.

Nothing to lose, she decides.

She takes a breath, then looks up at his face again. “Well, in that case, would you mind showing me the”— _the Burrowing Deepstalker_ , Isabela’s voice supplies while Hawke’s mind gropes for the name of a yoga pose—“the Triangle again? Just so that I don’t have to embarrass myself all over again in front of someone else next week?”

For a moment, she’s in free fall. His expression is shuttered, his eyes opaque, and she braces herself for the hard landing against his excuse, ready to run out of the studio with her Maker-damned water bottle in one hand and her shredded hopes in the other.

But instead he nods his head once, a smile tugging at the corner of his—full, shapely—mouth. “Of course.”

She leaves her gym bag and shoes by the door, then stands in front of the mirror. Her reflection grins back at her like an idiot, cheeks turning pink under the smattering of freckles that summer never fails to tease out of her skin, while Fenris shows her the pose again. “Bring your feet out wide,” he starts, showing her how to angle her feet properly (and Maker, since when are the words _heel alignment_ so sexy?), then circles her body to move behind her. “Bring your arms up, parallel to the floor, then shift your hips back to the left.”

He guides her movement without touching her, his palms hovering a mere inch from her hips, close enough she can _almost_ feel the heat of his hands through the light fabric of her leggings. Their gazes meet in the mirror; Hawke’s face is so red it’s a wonder she’s still standing, but she could swear that he, too, is a little pinker than before.

Her hips are still warm with the ghost of his touch.

He clears his throat, his eyes flitting away from her reflection. “Then bring your right arm down, and your left up,” he finishes, allowing himself to close two fingers around her wrists to gently pull her arms in the right position.

She bends her body to the side to rest her right hand on her outstretched leg, and angles her left arm crosswise to the floor. “Like this?” she asks, looking at their reflection through her lashes.

“Like this,” he answers, his voice barely above whisper. “Then you hold the pose for five to ten breaths.” At that he takes up the pose himself in one smooth, flowing motion, fingertips resting on the hardwood floor.

“Showoff,” Hawke says.

To her delight, he laughs, a warm, rumbling sound that vibrates down to her very tiptoes. She breathes in, then out—eight, nine, ten times, then follows his lead, mirroring the pose on the other side. Another ten breaths, and they stand up together again. “There is hope yet,” he says, quirking a corner of his mouth. “You did well.”

Hawke grins, too wide; she doesn’t care. “I have a good teacher,” she replies, then musters her courage, buoyed by an exhilarating rush like she was driving down the Imperial Highway, windows down, singing along to Maryden & the Bards at the top of her lungs. “Say, would you—”

A buzzing sound cuts her off. Fenris’s head snaps to his cellphone, vibrating against the windowsill. “I apologise. I have to take this.” His eyes meet hers for a split second, as though he was going to say more, but instead he makes for his phone, letting the moment shatter to pieces.

And then she’s alone in the mirror, her reflection throwing her chagrined expression back in her face, almost mockingly so. She shouldn’t be this disappointed when she’s known him for all of what, ten minutes? Maybe it’s just as well—at least she spared herself the embarrassment of mistaking the poor guy’s forbearance for something more.

She slips on her shoes, grabs her bag and heads out the door, Fenris’s voice an undistinguishable blur at her back.

* * *

“A _yoga teacher_?” Carver laughs. “Sister, you can’t be serious.”

Hawke looks up from the cool, polished wood of the bar where she dropped her forehead moments ago. “Carver, you don’t get it. I would’ve had his _babies_ ,” she says, pushing herself up again. It’s still early; patrons are only just starting to trickle into the Hanged Man, and besides the occasional round of ale to serve, she has way too much time on her hands to contemplate her earlier failure. “Beautiful, silver-haired, elastic-limbed babies, in a cute little white-picket-fence house full of mabaris in the Fereldan countryside.”

Carver raises his eyes to the ceiling, smirking into his ale. “Well, if it can make you feel better, twenty silvers says he doesn’t even swing your way. I mean, _ZITHER!_?”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” Hawke scoffs, “just because he’s not some protein-shake-guzzling musclehead who listens to Darkspawn Rising _obviously_ means he’s gay.”

“Hey, now, I was just trying to help,” he retorts, turning his palms over defensively.

She munches on a crisp stolen from his platter of snacks, pouting. “Sorry, I’m being a turd.”

“Can’t argue with you on that one,” he answers with a chuckle, waving her apology off. “You know, bet you he’s vegan. There. No more Five Dwarves for you.”

“Pfft, come on, Carv—oh, Maker, what if you’re _right?_ What if he’s _vegan?_ ” She stares at her brother, struck with horror at the thought of a life without double cheeseburgers stuffed with Orlesian fries. No life worth living, that’s for sure. “I almost had a _vegan’s_ babies,” she adds with a gasp, but then heaves a deep sigh before letting herself crumple face first onto the bartop again. “Beautiful, silver-haired, vegan babies … Forget it. I would’ve learned to cook deep-mushroom protein for that man.”

Carver snorts. “Never thought deep mushroom could sound even less appetizing, but cooked by you, of all people? The poor guy dodged a bullet if you ask me.”

“Thanks, brother,” she mumbles against the bar as he pats her head. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks when he drains his ale.

He opens his mouth like he was about to order something else, but his eyes stray to the entrance, and a smirk stretches his mouth. “Actually, I just remembered an errand I have to run.” He gets up, leaving a handful of coins on the bar. “See you around, sis.”

“Uh, sure,” she stammers, startled by his hasty departure. “See you, Carver,” she adds in his general direction, leaning over the bar to see him brush shoulders on his way out the Hanged Man with the customer who just stepped inside.

A certain—handsome, silver-haired, hopefully-not-vegan—elf.

Behind Fenris’s shoulder, Carver turns to wink at her before leaving the pub. Hawke jolts upright, turning her back to the door and spying her reflection on the brass finish of the closest draught beer tap; she combs her fingers through her hair and smoothes down imaginary wrinkles on her shirt, then busies herself by putting away Carver’s empty glass and plate.

“Hawke,” Fenris says as he hoists himself on a bar stool. “Good evening.”

“Hi,” she squeaks back, immediately forgetting her plan to look surprised by his arrival. “Do you, uh, come here often? I mean—I work here, so I know you don’t, but—” She cuts herself off and lets out a feeble laugh, cringing at her own words. “ _Wow_ , sorry. I must’ve gotten my foot stuck in my mouth at some point during yoga.”

He laughs under his breath, then runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I … overheard you tell your friend you were working here tonight. I hope that was not too presumptuous of me to come,” he adds, hesitation creeping through the deep rumble of his voice.

No chance of that. Hawke laughs, despite herself—had he come in a minute earlier he might have caught her talking about having his babies, and yet _he’s_ the one worried about being too forward. “No!” she exclaims when her reaction earns her a startled blink of his green eyes. “No, I’m … really pleased you did.”

He gives her a lopsided smile, and it’s a good thing she’s holding on to the bar. “Good.”

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks when she remembers where she is.

His eyes trail the row of draft beer taps along the bar, then the hard liquor bottles lining the lit-up shelves behind her. “I’ll have an … ale, please.”

 _Oh_. Oh, this is too good, Hawke thinks, grinning despite her best efforts. How the tables have turned. “We have a shrillion of those on tap, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that. What do you like?”

He blushes—all the way to the tips of his ears, she notes, delighted. “I’m more of a wine person. I like the Aggregio Pavali or Vyrantium wines, for instance.”

Of course he would enjoy those firm, bold Tevinter reds, being—well, a rather firm Tevinter himself. “We do have a few options by the glass, but …” She trails off, letting her apologetic grimace speak for itself. “I might have just the thing for you, though, if you’re willing to try something new.”

“I am happy to follow your lead,” he says as he props his chin on one hand, and those words in _that_ voice should be illegal.

She’s glad to have a reason to turn away from him—Andraste help her, she must be so red as to be glowing in the dim lighting of the Hanged Man at this point—while she looks for a suitably pristine glass, rejecting the first on account of a chipped rim. She fills it at one of the taps before settling it on a coaster in front of him, careful not to let the cream-coloured head layering the russet ale slosh over the brim. “Here, try this. Fereldan red ale, on the house. I’ll drink it if you don’t like it,” she finishes with a wink.

“Why do I have a feeling that is exactly your hope?” he says after thanking her, one eyebrow and a corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Then he takes a careful sip, licks the foam off his upper lip (which should _also_ be illegal), and blinks, looking pleasantly surprised. “That—is good, yes. What is it?”

“Bann Branwen’s Barrel Blend,” Hawke answers, both pride and relief flushing through her. “It’s an oak-aged blend, so it has some similar notes as a lot of full-bodied reds like the Aggregio. Hence why I thought you might like it.”

“Now _you_ are showing off,” he teases, smirking.

“Well, can you blame me for trying to make up for my performance at yoga earlier today? I must be the worst student you’ve ever had the displeasure of teaching,” she chuckles.

“Not at all. It was … refreshing, how you kept trying. With some practice you could become quite good at it.”

Something softened in his features at that; Hawke returns the smile, over Satina at his words, and shrugs one shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a bit of a … _stretch_ , don’t you think?”

Fenris laughs into his glass, the sound of it swirling once in her belly before tickling her toes. “Not by any _stretch_ ,” he replies, startling a laugh out of her. Maker, just when she thought the effect he has on her couldn’t get any more devastating. He watches her for a moment, obviously pleased with himself, then gestures towards his glass. “Shall I buy you a drink, since I am keeping this one after all?”

Warmth blooms under her skin, prickling her cheeks. “That—would be lovely. Thank you.”

“A pleasure,” he answers, a pale shade of pink riding high on those chiseled cheekbones as he returns the smile. Then he lifts his eyes to the menu blackboard behind her and adds, “And can I get the spicy wyvern wings as well? I am starving.”

 _Take that, Carver_ , Hawke thinks, vindicated, a ripple of joyful elation washing through her to spread into a smile across her face. “An _excellent_ choice,” she answers.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com/)!


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